


To write the best song in the world

by brothebro



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Banshee Jaskier | Dandelion, Bard Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel just wants a nap, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Humor, Non-Human Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Platonic Relationships, Swearing, feral bards au, hurdy-gurdy, lil bleater, they form a band!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24042973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: Jaskier is about to start his grand career as a travelling bard. Pity a bard named Geralt delays his illustrious start by getting on his way.Somehow they end up travelling together, chasing adventure, or more accurately a Witcher from the School of the Wolf by the name of Eskel.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 66





	1. The great bard-off of Posada

It is a beautiful summer’s day in Upper Posada. 

Jaskier has just arrived after weeks of travelling in a merchant’s caravan all the way from Oxenfurt. It’s been a fun journey so far, the company of the merchants fine and jolly and the stops to the various little villages filled with laughter, good ale and even beautiful people to share a bed with (not that he was picky about looks because he really was not). But he’s grown tired of being around the merchants and is eager to start his career as a lone travelling bard. 

It’s going to start here, in Posada, Aedirn, his grand career. He’s impatient, honestly, to be revelled by the masses, to visit even the most back-water hamlet of the back-water hamlets and be recognised. With certainty and gusto, he traverses the wooden bridge to the village's tavern, his lute case hugged tightly between his arms. 

Someone is walking behind him but he deems unnecessary to pay attention to the stranger. Even when the said stranger is walking uncomfortably close to him. He can feel their breath on the back of his neck for fuck’s sake. Ew.

"Do you mind walking faster?" Says the stranger in a gruff baritone voice and Jaskier being Jaskier huffs and reduces his speed further. He's not going to be fucking told what to do. If he wants to walk slower than a snail he will fucking walk slower than a snail, thank you very much. 

The stranger grunts in annoyance by the uncalled-for change of speed and proceeds to attempt to bypass Jaskier. Which, is near to fucking impossible without an accident happening, say for example one of the two men falling to their inevitable death from the bloody bridge. 

“Fuck you,” Jaskier exclaims and closes the way to the man completely which in turn shoves him to the side, thankfully lightly enough so he’s spared the fall to the very very scary ravine. Who in their right mind builds a village in such a dangerous area anyway? It’s probably one of humanity’s worst ideas but well, at least it’s pretty. 

They end up walking side by side, shoulders pressed together, grunting and snarling till they are finally off the bridge and in front of the tavern’s door. 

Where they open and enter simultaneously, rushing towards the bar. 

Fucking hell. 

Jaskier shoots an angry glance to the stranger, taking in his features; long bright copper hair partly hidden by a forest green hat, almost completely --save for the golden embroidered flowers on the collar-- green fancy attire and an instrument case hanging from the man’s broad shoulders. 

_Ah._

A bard. Talk about luck. 

Better secure his performance of this lovely establishment -- that reeks of spilt ale and sweat a smidge more than he’d like -- before the other bard has a chance to. 

“Greetings owner!” he says with his brightest smile and realizes the other bard said the exact same thing at the exact same time as he did. He narrows his eyes and purses his lips as menacingly as he can meeting the red-haired bard’s moss green gaze. 

“Aye bards,” the owner greets uninterested never stopping from meticulously cleaning an iron mug, “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to play for some coin,” Jaskier rushes before the enemy bard has a chance to.

“Better deal. I’ll play for supper,” the enemy bard says and smirks at Jaskier.

“Oh, that’s not fair! I was first, sir owner, that has to account for something surely?”

“Now now-” the tavern owner says but is cut off by the red-haired bard.

“With all due respect, you wouldn’t want a bardling fresh out the academy to entertain your patrons,” the enemy bard scoffs and Jaskier has had enough.

“How dare you?” he points an accusing finger at the green-clad bard. “ _How dare you!_ ” The gall of the man! Jaskier was a learned man! He graduated with honours from the Oxenfurt Academy of arts. He was even offered a teaching position there! To insinuate -- or more accurately outright state-- that he was some youngling that doesn’t know what he’s doing is outrageous! He’s also fairly sure he’s older than the red-haired bard. The preposterous excuse of a bard! 

“Am I wrong?” the other bard says crossing his arms and Jaskier is ready to throttle him at the first chance he gets.

Jaskier opens his mouth to speak but that’s when the owner decides to intervene by slamming his fist hard on the wooden counter shutting up the both of them.

“Silence!” the man growls, “Both of you can perform for some food and ale, but only if you stop ploughin’ fighting like children!”

“Fair enough,” the archenemy bard says with a slight affirmative nod. 

“ _Fine,”_ Jaskier agrees. That way he’ll get food and have a chance to show his superiority against his new archenemy. _To fuck with Valdo Marx!_

“Good,” the tavern owner says, “Now, You didn’t introduce yourselves, sir bards.”

“Geralt,” the red-haired bard rushes, “No, fuck, no. Goździk is my stage name,” he corrects himself flustered.

Jaskier cannot contain his laughter at Geralt’s mistake. He arches his brows and smirks at the man who’s glaring viciously at him. “You may call me Jaskier,” he bows with a flourish. 

* * *

In Jaskier’s humble opinion the performance goes splendid. He sings his jolliest song first, dancing and prancing around the tavern with his lute, trying to engage the uninterested lot that comprises the tavern-goers of this godforsaken village. He’s surprisingly unsuccessful at the engaging part. Well, their loss really. If they don’t know how to have fun they should not frequent taverns. 

When he’s done with his song he gives Geralt no chance to start his own performance and strums his lute merrily. That ends him tackled to the floor by the bear of a bard, who satisfied and having gained the attention of all the patrons gets up and starts playing a sad tune on his hurdy-gurdy. 

The melody is outright haunting. The lyrics even more so; they reach the macabre and turn it darker even. Combined with Geralt’s baritone voice the result is admittedly very scary. But at the same time, it’s scary good. _Damn_. He’ll have to top that. 

He’s spoken too soon because after the initial surprise of the audience, comes the booing. And then the stale bread. Hah! The audience likes Jaskier more! 

He steps in and starts playing a song about abortion. In his mind it makes perfect sense; a silly song like this, full of nonexistent monsters that seduce fair maidens is surely excellent for alleviating the spirits of the boring patrons. And not to mention that it _was_ a big hit in Oxenfurt

Boy, is he wrong…

It’s not even the middle of the song and he’s already getting stale bread thrown upon his lovely person. A man even yells a quite rude ‘Abort yourself’ at him.

Geralt, ruder even, steps in and plays a mocking song on his hurdy-gurdy. Jaskier strums his lute strings louder and more obnoxiously in response. 

This goes on for several more long minutes. Strangling sounds of the instruments creating a cacophony. His ears will start bleeding if this goes on any further, yet he does not relent. 

Which, unsurprisingly, ends with the both of them getting thrown out of the tavern. 

_Fan-fucking-tastic._

“Are you pleased?” Jaskier shrieks. “I didn’t even get to gather enough bread,” he points to the lone half of a half loaf of bread tucked in his waist, snagged when no one was watching. 

“It’s as much my fault as it is yours,” Geralt waves a hand dismissively and proceeds to put his hurdy-gurdy in its leather case. 

“You- You are worse than Valdo fucking Marx!” Jaskier shouts in a fit of rage. 

“Spare me the dramatics,” Geralt locks eyes with him, and presses his lips in a thin line, “Nobody is worse than Valdo.”

Jaskier is momentarily stunned, his eyes wide and disbelieving. “You know that talentless hack as well?” he finally asks. 

Geralt hums. “I’ve had the displeasure, yes.”

It’s such a simple thing, really. Yet, Jaskier finds himself revoking the title of archenemy from the man before him. Maybe Geralt - Goździk the hurdy-gurdy player is not that bad of a bard. Well, he definitely is infinitely more talented than Valdo. 

“Where will you go now?” He finds himself asking the red-head. “Not that I give a rat’s arse-” Jaskier stops when he sees Geralt signalling with a finger to remain quiet. 

Two villagers are traversing the narrow wooden bridge engaged in a very animated conversation. 

“I told you,” says a small man, “the Witcher will come through. He’ll rid us of the devil!”

_A witcher! Interesting..._

“But what if he doesn’t?” a tall lithe woman asks, “Then we’ve lost all of our coin _and_ the crops for this season!”

Jaskier watches as Geralt gets up and waves at the villagers to get their attention. 

“Greetings,” Geralt says loud enough for the couple to hear, “Where might one find this Witcher?”

_Oh. The man surely has a death wish._

Yet, Jaskier must admit that he’s never met a witcher before and he’d love to witness first-hand the legendary hunts. They would make damn good material for songs. Geralt, he reckons, must have a similar goal. 

“What for, bard?” the woman inquires. 

“Inspiration,” Geralt responds. 

“In the fields north of here,” this time the small man provides the information. The woman glares at him, “ _What_? If he wants to die, who am I to deprive him of the opportunity?”

"Thanks for your concern," Geralt says dryly and secures his hurdy-gurdy case on his back, waiting for the villagers to cross the bridge. Seriously, couldn't they have built a wider bridge? One perhaps that could fit two people? Jaskier would very much like to have a word with the engineer responsible for it. 

It seems endless, the waiting, but eventually, the villagers arrive on the bards' side of the bridge and the bards can in turn cross it. Fucking finally. 

"So," Jaskier starts, "are we going after the Witcher, Geralt?"

"I am." Geralt corrects him. Jaskier clicks his tongue. 

"If you think I'm letting an opportunity like this pass you are surely mistaken, my friend."

"Not your friend." 

"Right, right, right. Still, it's not every day you get to see a witcher in action," he shoots an expectant look at the red-haired bard. 

Geralt just exhales from his nose loudly in response and moves towards Posada's watering post where a chestnut mare is currently drinking water. 

"Come here Roach," Geralt says and the horse turns so that he can mount it. Jaskier notices that there are saddlebags attached on the horse’s saddle. But that’s not what’s strange after all, saddlebags belong on saddles who in turn belong to horses, right? The strange thing lies in the fact that the saddlebags were left alone for a good part of the day (the half-hour it took Geralt and Jaskier to get kicked out of the tavern) and they have not been stolen. This can only mean one thing, Jaskier deduces expertly. The horse is a force to be reckoned with, hence the intact belongings of the red-haired bard. 

Jaskier giggles to himself on the mental image of the horse kicking petty thieves right and left. _Hilarious_. He’s gotta write a jig about it at some point. Roach the protector of dried figs. Or whatever the fuck Geralt carries in his bags.

Distracted as he is, he doesn’t realise Geralt’s taken off riding quite fast. He’s stunned momentarily watching the silhouette of the bard and the horse becoming smaller and smaller with each passing second.  
  
He tries to run after them at full speed but after an embarrassingly short amount of time, he’s out of breath and has to stop before he passes out.

“FUCKING COCK!” he screams atop of his lungs, a bit too loud, a bit too unnatural. In fact, it’s so loud poor Roach flinches and stops at the spot. 

He continues yelling a bunch of profanities panting and jogging as fast as his legs allow him towards the horse and the bard, which are surprisingly nearing at an inexplicably fast pace. How fast is his jog even?  
  
Wait no, it’s not him jogging lightning-fast, it’s the horse galloping towards him. 

Geralt extends a hand and hoisters him on Roach in front of him. 

“Adventure awaits!” Jaskier wheezes out. 

“Don’t make me regret this,” Geralt huffs. 

_Oh, he’s definitely not going to regret it._

* * *

[Bard Geralt](https://www.instagram.com/p/B_zzjzQlan9/?igshid=1dfjfqg64slsk) a drawing by moi


	2. Two humble (very human) bards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the bards meet their witcher!

Jaskier is many things. An excellent songwriter, the most wonderful voice the continent has ever heard, an ace in tavern fights, bloody gorgeous --have you looked in those deep soulful eyes? They’re breathtaking!-- and most of all humble. But he’s not exactly good with horseriding; never saw the use in learning how to keep his balance atop a horse. After all, his legs work perfectly fine --thank you very much-- and whenever he gets tired of walking or simply isn’t in the mood for it, he can always find a caravan or a carriage to join. 

Well, sadly for him, this option isn’t exactly available right now, so he’s clinging for dear life squeezing the soft midriff of the hurdy-gurdy playing bard, Geralt, with both arms, lest he wants to fall to his demise from the lovely horse the redhead calls ‘Roach’.

“Can’t you make the horse go a bit slower?” Jaskier cries as Geralt ushers the horse into an even faster gallop. 

Geralt grunts, the reverberations of his chest deafening for Jaskier’s sensitive ears. “Thought you wanted to catch the witcher before he’s done with his contract.”

“I do! I do! But I’d prefer to watch the fight while I’m still among the living!”

“You’re being dramatic. Roach isn’t even going at full speed.” Jaskier can practically hear the eye-roll of the other bard. So be it then, living is overrated after all. No, it’s not! Jaskier squeezes tighter as Roach turns sharply left and the right again. A small whimper escapes his throat. 

Geralt ushers the horse into a slow trot suddenly and Jaskier has to physically keep his breakfast from completing a grand escape through his oesophagus. 

“Cock,” he sobs, the taste of bile strong on his tongue, “What now?” 

“The witcher,” Geralt says, pointing somewhere in the horizon. Jaskier peeks a look-- ah, there he is, a dark silhouette of a man with two swords strapped on his back and another silhouette of a horse and a smaller horned one. Is this a goat? Curious. 

“Witcher,” Geralt greets, Roach still trotting slowly, approaching the man. 

“Can I help you?” the witcher turns to face them, hand hovering above the thigh-strap holding an assortment of knives, the cold metal glistening in the afternoon sun. He tilts his head, making three long scars visible from this angle, splitting his lip and reaching his right eye, “Bards?”

“We heard of a contract,” Jaskier takes the opportunity to jump off the four-legged death machine, affectionately named after a fish, and makes his way to the very dangerous monster hunter who, under different circumstances --if he were still living with his relatives-- he’d avoid like the plague. After all, witchers are made to hunt creatures like him and his family. “My companion and I would like to join you for this adventure and compose a song about your heroic victory.” 

“It’s probably a bandit,” the witcher crosses his arms, “Nothing heroic about catching a petty thief.”

“Still,” Geralt speaks up, “even if this turns out to be a mundane task, we’d like to see a witcher in action.”

“We’ll stay out of danger of course,” Jaskier adds, “I can’t speak for Geralt, but I can look after myself just fine. Can handle a bandit or two by myself and come out unscathed. Won’t be the first time, after all,” he says but he doesn’t mention that those unfortunate occurrences he got jumped in the middle of the woods he had to Scream his assailants apart, making the area a macabre scene and inspiring several legends speaking of the phantasms of maidens spurned, coming after outlaws and bad men. _ He’s quite proud of this one, to be honest.  _

“You can come along,” the witcher says wearily, “because I have the feeling you’d follow whether I accepted or not. But please, run if this turns out to be anything more than a thief, alright?”

“Why of course, sir Witcher,” Jaskier smiles widely and Geralt nods and grunts. 

“Name’s Eskel,” the witcher says, lips curling ever so slightly. 

“Geralt,” Geralt says, his voice as impassive and flat as always. 

“And I’m the master bard Jaskier,” Jaskier bows with a flourish, “At your services, Eskel.”

“Master bard my ass,” Geralt grumbles under his breath and Jaskier purses his lips in annoyance.

* * *

Turns out the thief stealing the grain from the good tasteless folk of Posada is, in fact, a Sylvan. Magnificent creatures, Sylvans are, and so endangered after the non-human purge instigated by a certain Cintran queen and a batch of nasty evil mages. 

Well, no matter, what’s of importance is that the Sylvan was stealing grain for a band of elves that ambushed them, tied them up and brought them into their cave-homes. Talk about luck, ey? 

Jaskier, of course, could have screamed the bloody elves apart if he didn’t value the lives of his unfortunate companions. Well… To be completely honest, he could not, in fact, have used his powerful voice because briefly, before all of the action started, a bloody pebble of all things hit him straight on his forehead, and he lost consciousness on the spot. 

Unfortunate circumstances aside, he’s now in one of the aforementioned cave-homes, tied in a triangle together with Geralt and Eskel. 

“Well that sucks, doesn’t it?” Jaskier muses, the skin on his cheek irritated from dried blood. “Anyhow,” he says as nonchalantly as he can muster, “this is the part where we escape.”

“This is the part where they kill us,” Geralt hisses. 

“Calm down,” Eskel says, “I believe the elves can be reasoned with.” 

As on cue, an elven woman enters the small room, face morphed into a scowl. “Humans,” she spits, her voice imbued with so much hate it unsettles Jaskier. 

“‘Scuse me lady-” Jaskier starts saying and a boot meets his lute which breaks with a strangled sound and smashes right onto his chest. Bloody fuck that hurt. His poor precious lute! He’s had her for decades and she was still in a pristine condition until she met this brute’s kick.

“Let them go, please,” Eskel says, “They are just bards. They pose no danger to you and your brethren.” 

“You’re still humans,” the woman hisses, “Humans that took everything away from us. Humans that hunt us for sport. Humans that take and take and take.” She punches Eskel in the nose. Jaskier winces at the cracking sound it makes. Sounds like she broke it. Yeesh.

At that moment two figures enter the room, standing tall and imposing. Jaskier recognises one as the Sylvan from the field before he lost consciousness in such a disappointing way. The other is a blond male elf. 

“Toruviel, it’s enough,” the blond elf says and the woman retreats. 

“Filavandrel,” she says, “they-”   
  


“You’re Filavandrel?” Geralt’s voice booms in the small closed space of the cavern, “The king of the elves?”

“I didn’t think a human as young as you would have heard of me,” Filavandrel sits in front of Geralt. “But no matter. Unfortunate as it may be, I can’t let you leave this place alive. Not when you can disclose our location to your kings and queens and we have to bury any more family.” 

Jaskier understands where the elves are coming from. The purge… it was horrible for everyone not entirely human, not only the elves. But it’s true the elves suffered the most casualties. It’s true that they had to abandon their ancestral homes and hide and starve and die. It would be a lie to say he didn’t feel for them. 

“The witcher and I,” Jaskier says in Elder, the ancient tongue of the continent itself, “We’re not human. And Geralt… he’s just a kid. I’ll make sure that he won’t run his tongue, that he’ll keep your secret safe. Please let us go, your majesty.”

“Not human,” Geralt echoes in Elder, brow furrowed, “Really? Me neither.”

“What,” Jaskier says flatly.

“Would have told you,” Eskel glances at Toruviel, “before my nose got broken and I couldn’t utter a word from the pain.”

Fillavandrel’s chest heaves from loud unreserved laughter, “What in the name of-” he shakes his head. 

“Hold on a minute,” Jaskier turns his face to the witcher, “you knew and you didn’t do anything? I thought you lot were supposed to cut creatures like me on sight.” 

Eskel shrugs, “Not if you’re not harming anyone. You’ve got a right to live as any of us, banshee.”

“Banshee,” Filavandrel and Geralt echo in unison. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know we’re quite rare in the Continent,” Jaskier smiles, “Fret not, Screaming your brains off was never on my list of things to do. Even if you threatened to kill my lovely companions and me mere minutes ago.” he turns to the red-haired bard, “But indulge me Geralt, if you’re not human… What exactly are you?” 

“Want me to tell him or do you?” Eskel huffs out a laugh. 

“Untie us and I’ll show you,” Geralt says, amusement colouring his voice. 

“Can’t you just tell us?” Jaskier huffs.

“I can, but where’s your appreciation for the dramatics Jaskier? I’m disappointed.”

“You lot are impossible,” Filavandrel sighs, “Torque, Toruviel, help me untie them, please.”

The elves and the Sylvan get to cutting the rope binding the two bards and the witcher and soon enough they are free to move about. 

Jaskier stretches his arms, sighing in satisfaction when the joints clack. “Well, Geralt, you promised a show and I sure hope you deliver.”

Geralt, the bastard, just removes his hat, revealing pointy ears beneath. 

“That was a bit of anticlimax,” Jaskier remarks dryly. “Elf or half-elf?”

“Half. Father’s side. Dryad on mother’s side.” 

“Well colour me surprised. That I did not expect,” Jaskier says and pats the other bard on the shoulder, “Nonetheless,” Jaskier speaks to the elves, “I’ll do my best to divert the humans’ attention from you all,” he gestures vaguely, “What you do with that is up to you.”

“I’ll help,” Geralt offers, “Take that chance to leave this barren land. Go away, get strong, rebuild.”

“I agree,” Eskel hums, “These aren’t conditions to be living in. Take my payment for the contract, too. It’ll come in handy.”

Filavandrel smiles widely, “Thank you. We’ll never forget the kindness you did for us.” He reaches a cupboard and procures the most gorgeous lute Jaskier’s ever seen; its design is sleek and the patterns on it intricate. Soft chaos hums from the dark wood. “Take it, as an apology for breaking yours.” 

* * *

“I believe that went splendidly, my friends!” Jaskier exclaims patting the backs of his two companions. 

“Not your friend,” says Geralt fondly.

“Could do with an unbroken nose,” Eskel hums. 

“Oh well, occupational hazards and so on and so forth,” Jaskier grins and Eskel snorts a laugh while Geralt rolls his eyes, fixing with a hand his hat. “What now?” he asks after a long stretch of silence. 

“We write the damn song you promised,” Geralt plays a jolly tune on his hurdy-gurdy and Jaskier strums the chords of his newly acquired beauty. 

“When two humble bards, graced a ride-along, with Eskel of… Where are you from Eskel?”

“Rivia.”

“Of Rivia! Along came this song!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey! This fic is now complete yay!  
> took me only 5 months  
> well, truth be told I wrote the entire second chapter today, in one sitting after a very stressful day driving in the middle of a storm   
> so yeah, there's that! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and comments are always appreciated <3

**Author's Note:**

> This AU has been in my mind for a long time!  
> Many thanks to my boyfriend for providing this inspiration after he very helpfully said to me: How about you make Geralt a bard for a change??  
> (because I always make Jaskier a Witcher on my other stories :D ) 
> 
> And here you have it! 
> 
> Title slightly derived from Tenacious D's song "Tribute" (and also the premise. yep.)
> 
> Last but not least, many thanks to @StarsInMyDamnEyes for supporting me (and for keeping up with my relentless spamming of ideas for this fic :D )


End file.
